


The Path of Good Intentions

by avianbrother



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, Deadlock Gang, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11845449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avianbrother/pseuds/avianbrother
Summary: You knew doing business with Deadlock had its risks, you just never expected to be caught in the middle of a Blackwatch raid.





	1. Bleeding Hearts

It was supposed to be a routine exchange. You waited beside your truck, fiddling with your phone to pass the time. When you heard the familiar jangle of spurs and the scuffle of dirt beneath boots, you tucked away your phone and straightened up.

“Jesse.” Everything about him screamed ‘young punk’ but it would be hypocritical of you to call him that. You weren’t much older yourself. And you were the one buying drugs after all.

“Miss.” He tipped his hat at you. He pulled out and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. “You’re picking up,” he let out a low whistle, “twenty crates this time? Business must be booming where you’re at.”

You didn’t spare many details with Deadlock, and so long as you paid them properly for the goods, they didn’t care. Jesse was young though, and while he was restrained enough to know not to pry into the business of the gang’s associates, he was curious. Every time you arrived, he would eye you up with keen interest. Partly because you were pretty, and he made no secret he thought you were pretty, and partly because he was itching for something greater than what Deadlock was giving him.

You shrugged. “Gotta keep my stock up,” you said. “It feels like every time I come in with a fresh shipment, it’s cleared out within days.”

Jesse nodded along as you spoke, dragging over the stack of crates to start loading them into the truck. You climbed in back, grabbing on as he hauled each one up within your reach and then shoving it to the far end of the truck. “I must say, you’ve been looking mighty tired these past few trips. Don’t you ever think about passing the work on and taking a break for yourself?”

You weren’t sure whether he was speaking out of actual concern or if he was making an attempted pass you. You decided on the former. “A bitch has gotta work if she wants to make money,” you said plainly. He gave you a cheeky grin.

“You know what they say about all work and no play,” he drawled. Okay, so maybe he was trying to get into your pants a _little_ bit, but you didn’t give it much thought. Soon you’d be back on the road and then at sea.

He paused for a moment to rest and you took that as your cue to catch a breather as well, stepping down and sitting on one of the nearby boxes. Thankfully, you were shaded inside the large Deadlock warehouse. Muffled chatter drifted through place, the bikers talking about something or another. After a few minutes passed, you gestured to the stack of crates.

“Let’s go ahead and—“

An explosion shook the world around you, your ears ringing as you were tossed against a wall and a great rush of fire and blinding light filled the Deadlock hideout. In those brief seconds, you tried your best to shield your face. The crates splintered from the force of the blast, scattering chunks of wood all over. It felt like someone pounded your chest with a sledgehammer as the shock wave knocked into you.

Laying there on the ground, all you could do was blink and groan in pain. You didn’t know how close the blast had been and you really didn’t care much to find out. All you knew was that nothing good was about to happen. It hurt to move, you could hardly lift your head, but you still looked around in search of Jesse. He had been thrown to the ground as well, though he must have taken less of the brunt because he was at least able to move. He seemed to be moving his lips yet you couldn’t tell what he was saying, everything was just cotton and incessant, high-pitched ringing. As sound came back to you, you caught snatches of words and the crack of gunfire. Jesse looked torn, glancing between you and his fellow gang members in the distance. He leaned over and you just barely managed to hear him over the noise.

“Stay right here, darling. I’m gonna come back for you when it’s safe, you understand?” His eyes were wide with panic, and you were so deeply afraid to be left alone like this. But you knew he was good with a gun, and if you had any hope of making it out alive you had to trust him. You didn’t have the strength to nod. All you got out was a grunt and a slight lift of the head. He took that as a yes and sped off, taking one last apologetic look at you.

Consciousness was slowly slipping away from you, so you were only a little aware when the gunfire finally died down and heavy boots approached you. The voices melted into one another. Fear faded away. The last thing you felt before you fell into the pit of unconsciousness was a hand wrapping around you.

~~~

Bright. It was too bright. You squeezed your eyes shut and grit your teeth. You gradually opened them, blinking and taking in your surroundings. You remembered the explosion. You remembered pain and…well, not much after that. Fluorescent lights shined down on you. The room was empty, save for a table in front of you and the chair you were sitting in and—

You heard a clink and something tugged on your wrists. You looked down to see a pair of handcuffs chaining you to the table.

“Shit,” you mumbled, instantly regretting the choice to speak because your throat was dry and scratchier than sandpaper. You finally noticed the mirror that covered one part of the wall. You watched enough cop dramas in your life to know what an interrogation room looked like. You sagged in your chair, cursing every single goddamn life decision you had made up to that point. So this was how it was going to end. You knew the risks when you started this business; you just naively hoped that you wouldn’t get caught. Obviously, the cops weren’t going to listen to your side of the story—they only cared about catching the bad guy and being painted as the big damn heroes. They gave jack shit about you. At this point, you were probably looking at 20 years to life, depending on how much they knew about your business. Still…it was surprising that the law had caught up to the Deadlock gang. When you started your arrangement with them, they swore there would never be any compromises in security or odds of your shipments being confiscated. They had a fearsome reputation and the grit to back it up. Hell, half the reason you partnered with them was because the law enforcement was scared shitless of going anywhere near their territory.

As you stared into the ceiling, contemplating your fate, there came a quiet click. The metal door open, and in walked a dark man with a stern face. He wore a grey hoodie, tight fitting pants, and heavy boots. A black beanie hid his hair and armor covered his chest. Belts of shotgun ammo hung loosely around his hips. You straightened up, looking him over with increasing confusion. He shut the door behind him and stood on the other side of the table, his arms crossed.

“I was worried maybe Deadlock had expanded into other types of trafficking.” His voice was as hard as the brown eyes that bore into you. “But then we found your ID and your truck and this, of course.” From his pocket he pulled out a vial filled with a translucent liquid. You paled. Of course the only thing left intact after the explosion would be the fucking morphine. “According to the information we got from our database and what was left of the Deadlock gang, you’ve been at this for a while.”

You stared at him. His face was scarred and something about him filled you with dread. You couldn’t tell what the logo was on the hoodie he was wearing, and that was indicator enough to you that something was very, very wrong here.

“You’re not a cop,” you stated dumbly, edging back in your chair as if to somehow put some distance between yourself and him, however small it was. The terrible, mocking laugh that escaped him scared you even more.

“How observant,” he said, face solidifying back into that grim expression. “No, sweetheart, I’m not a cop. Have you ever heard of a little group called Overwatch?”

Your stomach dropped and your blood turned to ice. “D-did you say Overwatch?” It came out as little more than a whimper. Oh this was so much worse than the cops.

“We’ve been trying to shut down the Deadlock gang for years. Catching a drug distributor like you is just a bonus.” He set the morphine in front of you. You glared at the table, clenching your hands into fists.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh really?” He circled you like a shark scenting blood, coming behind to place an iron grip on your shoulder as he leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Then what is it supposed to be, hmm?”

Anger choked you and tears stung your eyes. Your only hope was to confess and pray that Overwatch would believe you and perhaps lighten the harsh sentence you’d inevitably face. But your pride held you back. You didn’t want to plead your case before this man, who would no doubt laugh at your pathetic cause, if he even believed you at all. You bit your lip and kept your eyes on the table. After a few minutes and still no answer, the man sighed and walked towards the door.

“Always got to be difficult,” he said in mock disappointment. “You might have been able to save yourself from prison, niña, if you had just been smart.” You heard the click as he grabbed the door handle.

“Australia.”

He froze. You couldn’t stop from blurting it out, not when there was still a chance of escape. He waited. You exhaled a sigh, looking at the corner of the room instead of him.

“I take drug shipments to Australia,” you continued, shame rising in you. “Say what you want, but it’s purely medicinal use. I give the list of what I need to Deadlock and they get it for me. I don’t ask where or how, I just pay them what I owe. Then I pack it in a boat and port in Sydney.”

He scoffed. Your head snapped to him and you sneered. He stood in that same arms-crossed position as when he came in, staring you down as if you were an insect.

“You expect me to believe that?” You rested your fists on the table and leaned forward, meeting the challenge in his gaze.

“It’s true.” For the first time, your voice was firm and your confidence unwavering. He raised a brow.

“What do you sell and who are your buyers?”

“Most of Junkertown and probably half the wanderers still alive in the exclusion zone buy from me in one way or another. There aren’t any aid stations left. No one is sending anymore official help since the place was branded too dangerous for workers. Hardly anyone comes in with goods, and those that do are mostly scalpers looking to fuck over Junkers for everything they’ve got.”

“And what about you? Are you just giving from the goodness of your heart?” You bit the inside of your cheek and glanced at the wall. You knew he was baiting you with that sarcastic tone, trying to get you to spill every last detail. But Overwatch was just as much to blame as the other organizations that left all the Junkers in the outback to rot. You were a criminal, but you weren’t going to let him call you heartless.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do you know how much a bottle of potassium iodide sells for in the outback?” you asked. He didn’t respond, maintaining that stony mask of his. “It was selling for sixty dollars a bottle for a thirty day supply when it costs less than a _tenth_ of that to make. These fuckers were coming in and jacking the prices because everyone is desperate enough to pay what it takes for relief from the radiation effects. Sixty dollars for fucking _potassium iodide_.” You were shaking with rage. You swore you saw something akin to surprise flash across his face when you told him the numbers. It angered you even more.

“And that’s nothing compared to what they were charging for morphine,” you said, “or for antiseptics, or burn salve, or any of the anti-radiation drugs that actually fucking work. I was able to get what I needed from Deadlock—whether they stole or made it, I don’t know, maybe a bit of both—and I got it for dirt cheap and sold it at a fraction of what everyone else was so people could finally get treatment instead of dying!” You hadn’t realized you were yelling until you stopped and your throat felt raw and a tear streamed down your cheek. The man’s expression softened and he looked…impressed.

“You undercut the market,” he said in disbelief, as if it was that hard when vultures were coming and selling medicine for ten times its worth. Some of the hardness had chipped away from him, and as he studied you, you felt strangely proud of what you’d done despite the current situation it landed you. He was silent for some time before he spoke again. “There’s no way you were doing this by yourself.”

You relaxed and leaned back in your chair, though you kept your gaze locked with his. “Just me. I got my supplies from Deadlock but I ferried it all myself. I met a refugee, he had a boat and I paid him to take me across until I’d learned enough from him to buy it off and make the trips on my own. We’d port in Sydney then a couple of Junkers would meet up with me on the edge of the outback. Sometimes I’d go with them to Junkertown and back just to check up on things. Sometimes they’d take the supplies to distribute to the few doctors that stick around or whoever else needs them, and make sure everyone pays their fair share. Money isn’t always easy to come by, so some folks will trade what they can and the two guys will sell it and give me the gains.”

“Why?” The question wasn’t intended to be malicious, and he was just doing his best to be thorough. Didn’t make it hurt any less. His brow furrowed as your mouth hung open and the words refused to come out. Your gaze dropped to your hands, palms still marked by the indents your nails left.

“I…I don’t—I never meant…” You could barely hear your own voice. The table creaked as the man sat on the edge, arms still crossed but his posture far less intimidating now. He waited, making no motion to strike you or leave you alone in that hollow room. Somehow that made it worse.

“I thought it would be a quick way to make money,” you whispered after some time. “I didn’t have much after my parents died, and I figured I could make the trip once or twice and be done with it. I was a scalper like the rest of them when I started—I was just a bit craftier with my pricing. When I first went to Junkertown, I saw how bad the radiation had affected everything. It was worse for the kids. I felt bad bending them over the table for a bottle of pills, so I would give kids or their parents a discount. In reality, I was selling it for what it was worth. But by the end, I still made a ton of money. So I planned a second trip. And then another and…” God, you were a piece of work.

“And?” He gestured for you to keep going.

“And then eventually I was selling the drugs for the lowest price I could get away with. It stopped being about the money. Junkers aren’t so bad, once you get to know them. They even brought me to their mech battles." You smiled fondly at the memory. It had been terrifying, awesome, and beautiful at the same time to watch the mech pilots duke it out.

Aside from the small cut you made, the only things keeping you going were the Junkers and the unusual comradery you shared with them. Not that you’d admit it, but you had a pitiful amount of money left for yourself after you covered all the expenses. Come to think of it…when was the last time you slept in your own bed? With all the constant traveling back and forth, you only ever slept on the small bunks you had in the boat and the truck, or a hotel if you were lucky. What had been intended as a cash grab ended up consuming your life. The only things keeping you going…were the Junkers.

For a brief eternity, your whole world collapsed in on you. You blanked.

It was cruel, in a way. You were probably getting a one way ticket to the slam. Because there was no way in hell Overwatch would trust your bleeding heart of a story. Once you were in jail, you’d have nothing. Less than nothing. And no Junker would ever know what happened.

At least you can go with a clean conscience.

Finally, you gathered the courage to be able to look the Overwatch agent in the eye. “I may not have started out with the best intentions but I kept going because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

He remained silent for what felt like hours. Then he stood, walked to the door, and left. The overwhelming urge to break down and cry threatened to destroy your self-control, yet somehow you were able to put on a brave face. You thought you heard voices from behind the mirror, though time passed and no one entered. There was no indicator of how long you were stuck in that room. You sank in your chair and stared at the ceiling in resignation.

Sure feels like they’re taking a while, you thought. Are they going to kill me? Send me to prison?

Your body was not as achy as it was after the blast, but sitting the chair was really making you stiff and the cuffs weren’t doing your wrists any favors. You wondered if maybe you could fall asleep and maybe then you’d wake up and it would all be a dream, like in the movies. You scoffed.

Fat chance of that.

The door slammed open and your heart jumped, and you swore that if your life weren’t already over then that definitely shaved a few years off. The man that stomped in wasn’t the same one that interrogated you, but he was certainly wearing the same insignia. He grabbed you by the arm and disconnected the chain linking the handcuffs to the table. As he dragged you to your feet, you belatedly realized that the uniform and insignia he wore looked nothing like the pictures of Overwatch you saw on the news. Hell, he might not be affiliated with Overwatch at all.

Oh fuck.

Suddenly your prospects of making it out of here alive weren’t looking so good.

Panic kicked in and you began to thrash as he tugged you along. He paid your feeble attempts no mind. He merely tightened his grip. Past the door was a long, dark hallway lined with numerous other doors. You dug in your heels but it did little to help. You wanted to scream and the desire was drowned out by the intense fear that he might actually kill you if you tried. You let him take you to the far end.

The door opened.

Light blinded you for what felt like the third fucking time today. It took you a second to notice the sun was shining through the windows down the hallway. You looked around and saw trees outside. People scurried along, paying no attention as you passed. And they wore blue uniforms marked with a white and yellow symbol on the shoulders.

Oh.

Okay.

That certainly instilled a bit more hope to your situation.

You couldn’t savor it because you were taken to yet another dark room and you scowled as you blinked and readjusted to the difference. The grip on your arm disappeared and you heard the door shut behind you.

The only light was from the many screens displaying everything from news footage, to maps, to—oh look, it was you. Chained to the table. You heard a quiet cough and regarded the two figures you were left alone with. You spotted your interrogator, who gave you a momentary glance before turning to the other man. He had his back to you, but you could make out the silhouette of a long coat and tufts of blond hair. Any fear you had left was replaced by extreme confusion.

Why the hell was Jack Morrison, the leader of motherfucking Overwatch, interested in _you_?

“So let me get this straight,” he said, cutting through the silence, “you managed to not only make a deal with Deadlock to steal drugs for you, but you singlehandedly smuggled them out of the US, past Sydney law enforcement, and sold them to a bunch of irradiated outlaws in the outback?”

“Uhh…” your eyes darted to your interrogator then back to Morrison. “Yes?”

The commander turned to face you. He observed you, showing a tad more emotion in his façade than the other guy ever did. A desk divided the space between you and the two of them. Morrison pulled up a chair, humming as he took note of the bags under your eyes, the bruises forming on your arm, and the generally disheveled appearance of someone who had been caught in an explosion and unable to clean up afterwards. You licked your chapped lips and shifted uneasily.

“You are aware that what you did was highly illegal, correct?” He spoke as if he was talking to a child. You tilted your head, brows drawn in ever increasing confusion.

“Yes…sir,” you mumbled the ‘sir’ at the end, aware that this was probably a person you should be addressing as sir.

“Then why did you do it? You had nothing to gain.” The question startled you, because didn’t you just explain this while handcuffed to a table? The other man stood to the side of the commander. Even with their faces partially shadowed, you knew he was staring into you.

“I did it for the money but then I stopped caring about that. And I kept going because it needed to be done. No one else was.”

The men looked at one another.

“I told you, Morrison. She has the traits of a good agent.”

“That may be true, but she’s still rough around the edges. You’ll need to train her. _And_ that _other_ one you picked up.”

“I think I can handle it, boy scout.”

Now you were hopelessly lost.

“Um, excuse me—what?” you stammered out. The dark one sighed in a way that would’ve been vaguely insulting if you hadn’t already been picked apart.

“Look kid, you’ve got two choices here—you can either be put to use here and do something that _doesn’t_ involve you working with a biker gang, or you can go to prison. You’d be working under me handling field communications and analysis.”

“So…you want me to work for Overwatch—“

“ _Blackwatch_ ,” he corrected. You looked at Morrison.

“Blackwatch is our black ops division,” he explained. “Some missions are best left out of public knowledge. Some require...unsavory tactics. But it gets the job done. You’ve already proven you have no qualms with illegal activity if it’s for the right reasons. Reyes here would be your commanding officer and you would help monitor activity during Blackwatch missions and relay information to the team.”

 You turned to Reyes. “So you want me to work for Blackwatch in exchange for not sending me to prison?”

“Yep.”

“Is there a _different_ option where I don’t go to prison?”

“No.”

Welp. At least you tried.

“I guess I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?” you said. “What do I have to do?”

Morrison opened a drawer on his desk and laid a small packet of papers out. “This contract guarantees your full cooperation and adherence to Blackwatch guidelines. For our part, we agree to dismiss all charges against you. You’ll have access to the same resources as any Blackwatch agents within your security clearance, which includes housing on base or wherever Reyes decides you’re needed. If for some reason Overwatch no longer needs your services or you are unfit to continue duty, we’ll uphold our end of the bargain and keep your crimes off public record, provided that Reyes and I are satisfied with you performance.”

It was a lot to take in. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad deal; free food and a place to stay, so long as you did the same thing you’ve been doing the past few years. Just without the drugs.

“Alright, I’ll take it.” Reyes came over and undid the handcuffs. You signed the paperwork and passed it off. Morrison and Reyes each signed their names.

“Go ahead and get her settled,” said Morrison. “We have to deal with the young punk when you’re finished.” Reyes chuckled while Morrison frowned, rubbing his temples.

Reyes left and gestured for you to follow. It was hard to keep up with his long strides. He glanced over his shoulder, slowing just enough for you to catch up.

“You’re gonna have to be faster than that if you’re working with me, rookie.” You huffed and switched pace to put yourself just slightly ahead. He responded by yanking your shirt collar, setting you back further than when you started. You scowled. “You may be smart, but not smart enough. We’ll get you there.”

Oh, you were gonna hate working for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking a few liberties with the Overwatch timeline. There's no exact date for when the ALF blew the omnium, so I'm writing it to suit the purposes and setting of this fic.


	2. Tin Notes and Golden Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least you have one person you can count on.

Reyes led you to a corridor of doors, each marked with a room number and a strip of paper with a name. He brought you to a door already labeled as yours. He opened it up and herded you inside.

“This will be your room,” he said, leaning against the door frame.

It was very minimal, furnished with a bed, a desk, a chair, and some shelves. You checked another door inside to find a decently sized closet. Adjacent to that was a small bathroom, complete with shower. Huh. You expected something akin to a bunk in the barracks or something.

“You’re not a soldier,” said Reyes, picking up on your surprise, “I don’t expect you to live like one.” He jerked his thumb to the neatly folded clothes on your bed. “There’s your uniform.”

It was a similar outfit to his. The chest plate and ammo belts were absent. While the boots had seemed clunky, they were rather light and formfitting. You held up the hoodie. Overwatch did a good job of guessing your size.

Wait a minute.

“How the hell did you get this set up so fast?” you asked. He shrugged.

“Wasn’t that hard, rookie. I figured you would pick this over jail. So I had the boys put it together while we processed you.”

Had you really been stuck waiting that long? Or perhaps Overwatch was very quick to take you in.

“You’re not wrong,” you admitted. Folding the clothes back up, you examined your new accommodations and realized just how barren they were. An unexpected pang of loss struck you and you sat on the edge of your bed, hanging your head.

“Something wrong, rookie?” It was difficult to tell whether he was mocking you again or genuinely concerned. His languid steps conveyed nothing other than a sense of ease, so probably not very concerned for you at all. He nudged your shoulder. “Spit it out.”

You peered up at him, your heart aching more than your body ever did. Sure, you were safe, but you had none of what had made your life happy before; none of your Junker friends or your boat with all your mementos. You even missed Jesse, insatiable flirt that he was. “What about my boat?” you asked. “And all my things?”

He exhaled, avoiding your gaze as he scratched his scruff and thought. “We can’t let you keep the boat, but if you give me the information, I’ll see if I can’t send someone to collect your stuff,” he suggested. “Does that sound fair?”

You nodded. “Yeah, that would be amazing…thank you.”

He pointed to your desk. “Paper and pens are over there. Don’t take long, I have more to do besides babysit you.”

You scrambled to the desk, jotting down the location of the marina, the dock number, and the name on your boat. You gave him the slip. He read it over, grunted, and turned to leave. Just before he shut the door, he poked his head in.

“Get cleaned up and report to me when you’re done, you look like shit.”

“Motherfucker,” you muttered under your breath once he was gone. He was right of course, didn’t make him any less of a dick.

You stripped and checked yourself in the mirror while the water warmed up. Already, the pinkish bruise on your arm was turning a darker shade of blue. Debris from the explosion clung to your hair and you were pretty sure a lump was forming on the side of your head. Other than a couple scrapes here and there and some more light bruising, you were fine. You stepped in the shower stall and sighed in relief as the tension in your muscles melted. Someone had already stocked the bathroom with basic soaps and shampoo. You washed the mess from your hair and scrubbed your skin, taking your sweet time. This place wasn’t the lap of luxury but the small comforts would be enough. When you finally felt clean and relaxed, you shut off the water and dried off. With a snarl of frustration you realized they hadn’t given you any undergarments to change into. So much for feeling clean. You sighed and re-wore what you had, swapping your outer layers for the uniform. It was a bit warm so you unzipped the hoodie to reveal the black shirt underneath. The getup was very comfortable. And the pants made your ass look good.

Unsure where to report to your new boss, you went out to the hall and looked around, wondering if you should just return to the room with all the screens. As you checked down the hall, a familiar figure caught your eye.

“Jesse?”

He was being taken in your direction. He heard you call his name and his eyes widened. Breaking away from the guard behind him, he sprinted towards you. You collided into his embrace. His arms encircled your waist and you threw your arms around his neck. “Oh my god, Jesse, you’re alive, you wily bastard,” you gasped. “I thought you were dead.”

He loosened his hold so he could look at your face. Shame dragged at his features. “I’m so sorry, sugar, I swear I meant to come back for you, I didn’t abandon you, I _promise_.”

You patted his cheek, tears blurring the edge of your vision. “It’s okay, Jesse. I believe you.”

His brow furrowed as he looked you over like a concerned hen. “You’re okay, right? They didn’t hurt you none, did they? If they did…”

The protectiveness was unwarranted, but it was touching nonetheless. “I’m just fine,” you assured. He squeezed you tight and you buried your face in his chest, each of you just grateful to be alive and taking comfort in being held by another human being. It didn’t matter how distantly you knew one another, he was here and he was familiar, and he was probably the last friend you had left that you would ever see again.

Heavy boots thudded behind Jesse. “Alright, knock it off,” said the guard. You glared over Jesse’s shoulder.

“Give us a fucking minute, will you?!” you snapped. Jesse chuckled and stroked your hair.

“Good to see they ain’t broken your spirit,” he said.

You stepped back a smidge, shooting daggers at the guard once more before studying the cowboy. He had a busted lip and dried blood on his shirt, but was no worse for wear than you had been. You were happy to see he still had his prized hat.

“Not broken, per se,” you explained. “I had to sign a deal to keep from going to jail, so now Blackwatch has me working for them until they decide to cut me loose.”

His brows shot up. “You too, darling? I’m gonna be a Blackwatch field operative for this Reyes guy.”

Of course McCree would be the ‘young punk’ they were talking about.

“At least we’ll have each other, right?” you teased, attempting to lighten the mood. He rewarded you with a smile.

“Probably the best thing to come out of this, huh?” He gave you a peck on the temple, aware that the guard’s patience was wearing thin. Before he moved along, he leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Whatever happens, I won’t let them hurt you. Imma keep you safe. Even if it means we gotta bust outta here.”

Despite all his posturing and flirting, Jesse was one of the most chivalrous men you knew. There was no doubt in your mind that he was a man of his word and he’d risk everything for you. You were probably all he had left, just as he was all you had.

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that,” you said. With that, the guard shoved him along.

You backtracked to what you assumed was Morrison’s office. Reyes was standing outside, signing something on a tablet and handing it back to one of the many staff members scuttling past. He grunted in approval as he took in the sight of you wearing the Blackwatch attire.

“Better,” he said. “The uniform isn’t half bad on you.” He started walking, wordlessly expecting you to follow. You kept pace this time.

“Would’ve helped if you guys gave me some underwear,” you said with annoyance. Apparently he didn’t know that part.

“What?” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Goddamn supply team can’t get their act together. If you can put forth _half_ the effort you did with your drug business, I’ll be happy.”

“Is it really that bad?” you asked. He grumbled something under his breath you didn’t quite catch.

“The first thing you need to learn, rookie, is something always slips through the cracks,” he said more clearly. “Especially when you think everything is in order. Overwatch has techies, scientists, and analysts out the ass, but do you know how long I’ve been waiting to get a good coms specialist for Blackwatch? All Morrison has given me are a couple candy butterflies fresh from training, and they didn’t last long.”

Boy, way to lay on the pressure.

You almost ran into him when he stopped. “We’re here,” he said. He punched in a code on an access panel then pulled out an ID card from his pocket and slid it through. With a quiet bing the door unlocked and he shooed you inside.

On first inspection, it was similar to Morrison’s office. As you adjusted to the dim lights, you noticed just how small the space was. Then you noticed that while the number of screens was fewer, they were much larger than the ones Morrison had.

“That will be your station,” said Reyes. He pointed to a normal work desk centered in the room. Three different computer screens were arranged in an arc to allow you to view multiple tasks at once. To one side was a hologram table currently displaying the layout of the Deadlock warehouse. To the other side was a slightly bigger desk aligned perpendicular to yours, making it impossible for you to see what was on that computer.

He looked at you expectantly, so you awkwardly seated yourself at your station. Once he was satisfied, he rifled through his desk, blindly tossing you a lanyard and a headset. You snatched them before they hit the floor. Clipped to the lanyard was a badge holder. The ID was missing a picture.

“You guys got me a room and clothes but you couldn’t find my picture for a stupid ID?”

“Good little rookies get to upgrade to the special ID.” His voice was so thick with sarcasm you could cut it with a knife. A snarky comeback sprang to mind but you thought better of it, choosing instead to address the situation at hand.

“Am I the only one working here?” you asked.

“You’re the only one we need,” he replied, doing that stupid arms-crossed pose of his that seemed to be his default stance. “Blackwatch is still young compared to the rest of Overwatch, and we’re only a fraction of its operations. Don’t worry, you won’t be doing intelligence work. I’ll be giving the orders, but you’ll relay building layouts, enemy positions, and any information we need you to pull from our database.”

“I’m a glorified messaging machine.” Disappointment weighed on you. You figured they’d put you to work, you were just hoping for something a bit less…pitiful.

Reyes laughed bitterly. “If I wanted that, I’d get a tin can to do this job. You don’t really think I stuck my neck out for you so you could sit on your ass and play messenger?”

Well when he put it that way…

He put his hand on your shoulder. “You’re smart enough to sneak literal boatloads of drugs between here and bumfuck Australia without getting arrested or killed. I’m impressed you buddied up with Junkers and didn’t go crazy. If you can think on your feet and use that intuition of yours, you’ll be an asset for guiding these guys in the field. For now, just familiarize yourself with the system. I’ll be writing a report and keeping an eye on you in case you fuck up.”

He returned to his chair and started drafting his report. With little else to do, you flipped through the database, learning the shortcuts and organization. A scan of your contract was available so you skimmed over it, re-reading the particulars of your job. You quickly learned that the various networks and channels available to Blackwatch could connect to more than just phones and computers, as evidenced by the handful of blips across vast swaths of the outback. Junkers were a crafty bunch, able to construct usable, if hazardous, machines and weapons to suit their needs. They had a collection of short-range radio towers for communicating between scavengers and builders in Junktown. But there was no way that was what you’re seeing. Some Junkers had phones they picked up after the initial EMP wiped out the cell network in the area. In fact…

You zoomed in on a blip that was slowly moving from Junkertown in the direction of Sydney. You recognized the number. You gave them that phone. Not that the two trashboys ever used the damn thing. Still...

You glanced at your boss, currently up to his nose in typing reports. Perhaps if you were quiet enough he wouldn’t even suspect a thing.

No.

You sighed and closed the window, taking one last look at the blip. There was too much risk. It was too soon. If you were going to get in touch with your criminal friends, it would have to wait until Reyes trusted you not to go behind his back. Wait for that golden opportunity. Patience was your ticket to regaining a life outside these walls.

You settled for skimming the database and channels again. Eventually Reyes stopped you. “Call it here, rookie,” he said. “Nothing more you can do at this hour, unless you wanna watch the techies do maintenance.”

Hell no. Besides, your stomach was begging for food and your eyes were so tired, your bags had bags. Maybe you could find a mess hall or something. You shoved the badge in your pocket and yawned as you slunk to the door. “Don’t lose that ID,” added Reyes on your way out. “That’s your key to get in here.”

“What about the code?”

“You’ll find a copy in your room. And for fucks sake, shred it once you have it memorized, got it?” You nodded and took your exit.

When you returned to your room, a pair of cardboard boxes was sitting on your bed. On each one was a note. The first was the keycode to access the office. You read the second note.

_Good luck, rookie. -Commander Reyes_

All your clothes and personal effects were neatly folded and stacked inside. You put away your clothes in the closet. To your delight, whoever packed your stuff saved the multi-tool you kept on board. Always handy to have. You tucked it in your pocket. The rest was knick-knacks and photos that you set up on your shelves. There was a tiny hand crank music box you’d been gifted by one of the Junkers. You went to set it on your desk when you noticed a covered dish already there. The paper plate was filled with chicken, mashed potatoes, and other assorted veggies and wrapped in plastic to keep it warm. Another note and some plasticware were stuck to the top.

_Eat and rest up, big day tomorrow. –Commander Reyes_

For a man with such a gruff exterior, he was quick to provide for you. You pulled off the wrap and inhaled the smell of good cooking. If this was the kind of quality to expect from the mess hall, you could be content here. Between bites you stopped and cranked your music box, the tinny tune carrying you away to somewhere more like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to whoever can catch the reference ;)


End file.
